Dear Father Simon and Curates of the Confessional,

When I was a young man, I took a live-in job as a trainee manager with a pub company in the Cotswolds. My job was to run a country inn as my own, under the watchful eye of the Area Training Manager. As a management trainee I experienced every area of the business, cooking at breakfast and lunch then taking a break in the afternoon before working on the bar in the evening.

The building was picture perfect and the restaurant in particular was fantastic – bedecked as it was in linen finery and wide 17th century beams, original flagstones and large and very expensive Axminster rugs. The Cut glassware glistened in the sun each afternoon as we would send meal after meal into the busy restaurant; the reputation for quality stretched across the county.

One day I managed to get a much needed free lunch shift and, giddy with choice as to what to do with my afternoon, I skipped off to my room to have a bath (I’d essentially been walking around a room full of evaporated lard all morning) and leave the boys in the kitchen to deal with the growing crowd awaiting lunch.

It is at this stage, Father Simon, I would like my judgement to begin. For unlike many sons, tired from their last shift and with limited time off – I did take the call from my mother that came through on my mobile phone just as I started to undress for my much needed bathe.

I’m not sure what we talked about – I never am – but I do know it was a full hour and a half before Emma the barmaid affected a forced entry into my bedroom.

Mumbling something to my mother that I had to go because of an emergency, and that I hadn’t actually contributed anything to the conversation yet anyway, I hung up and foolishly jumped to my feet.

Looking down I momentarily froze, realising my semi-nudity, before quickly pulling on some trousers and a T-Shirt!

“The whole restaurant is flooded”, yelled Emma.

A little irritated, I snottily pointed out to Emma that the flags on the restaurant floor had been there quite some time before the mains water system and asked her to elaborate.

“No – from the ceiling!” she cried!

It was at this point that my jaw dropped as I realised a potential source of the leak. Ordering Emma out of the room to “Fetch some buckets!”, I ran through to my bathroom to see hot water still flowing over the sides of the bath, down the panels and through to the floor – as they had been for the last hour and a half.

Now dressed, I went into the restaurant – the sight was impressive. The two buckets Emma had dutifully fetched seemed a little ineffectual now as great curtains of water poured off the 17th Century beams and sloshed down into the 80 seat restaurant. The water that had been held back by the ceiling (which now lay in bits all over the floor) for over an hour before breaking though now created an eerie post-apocalyptic scene. Water splashed, plinked and poured into glasses and full meals left half eaten in the now deserted dining room.

Great streams of water had washed coats and handbags into a neat pile at what turned out to be the lowest point of the medieval floor. The ruined antique rugs squelched as I helplessly placed bins bowls and buckets on the floor, taking this time to consider how long it would take to pack and whether I even had enough money for the train fare home.

“I think it might be stopping, actually” I lied, but it was too late, the area manager had been called, he in turn had called a plumber, and both would be here in a few minutes.

Simon, it is sometimes when we are at our lowest ebb that we realise, actually, we might just be able to stoop a little lower and get away with it… for as I was collecting my things from the kitchen to pack alongside everything else, I spotted a teaspoon. There were a few around but this particular one was uncommonly thin at the end; the plan hatched in my mind and I took it and ran upstairs.

Frantically attacking the screws on the side panel of my bath, I quickly removed them all, and gained access to the underside and plumbing. There was only a bit of moisture under the bath as the water had flowed over and down the sides rather than underneath, so with a trusty boot I kicked at the downpipe until it gave way, running a bit more water through so it splashed about the broken pipe before replacing the panel.

I had only managed to replace two screws before the incandescent-with-rage Area Manager arrived with the plumber… who, after commenting on how the bath panel needed screwing in properly, surveyed the broken pipe. He gave the intake of breath you learn at plumbing school. “There’s your problem” he said, wisely.

Later that evening, as the antique rugs hung forlornly over the hedges of the company’s flagship inn, with the de-humidifier humming quietly in the background, the question of why I still stank of bacon did arise, similar questions were broached regarding the miracle that had transformed a single bath of water innocently emptied into a biblical flood, but the plumber had given his diagnosis so my position at the company – though not the relationship with my knowing manager – had been saved.

I deeply desire absolution Father Simon, firstly to the company and my manager, who clearly knew so much but could prove so little; from Emma, who had to witness the sights – almost all of mine in fact – that she did and to the customers that day who arrived for a meal but ended up with a drink. I hope you can find it in your hearts to lay my watery demons to rest.

Ed